Arahn stood in front of the warden who watched him expectantly and nervously rubbed his hands together.

“Hold out your hands, boy,” ordered the guard.

“I wasn’t involved,” Arahn protested. “I was upstairs when—”

“Roll call includes everyone,” interrupted the warden slapping the switch against his own gloved hand. “If one person breaks the rules, everyone feels the consequences.”

“That’s not—”

“Not fair,” said the warden as though reading Arahn’s mind. “It is entirely fair. What do you think your cellmates would say to you trying to get away with what they have already endured? If you are truly angry about your fate, I suggest you take it up with the ones directly responsible.”

Arahn looked out over the crowd. The troll’s ears had pricked at being talked about, his ice cold gaze burning into Arahn’s as though daring him to do something. Feeling intimidated the boy quickly looked away.

“Now, hands out.”

Arahn swallowed nervously then feeling like a chastised school boy he raised his shaking hands. The warden’s switch came fast and hard across his palms, pulling a reflexive pained yelp from his lips as he snatched them back and tucked them under his armpits.

“I would suggest you learn to keep such outbursts of emotion to yourself in future,” said the warden. “Lest your expressions of weakness be used against you by your cellmates. The rabble will always use and abuse those who are beneath them.”

“I’m on death row,” Arahn stammered.

“Perhaps, but the when and where are up to me. If I want you to die tomorrow, then you will. If however I would prefer for you to live out a few years here, sharing your space with the vermin, then you will. Never forget that your future is mine to dictate. Now go, I have others to discipline.”

Arahn stumbled back down the stairs, keeping his head down. He could feel eyes on him, sizing him up, judging him. He walked passed someone who muttered “Baby” at him under his breath. Tears welled in his eyes, partly from the pain of his throbbing hands and partly from embarrassment but he refused to let them fall.

After roll call was over the warden made another short speech about how they should ruminate on their physical pain and try to repent the disobedience that caused it. Then he announced that due to the damage to the food supply caused by the troll’s actions the rest of the day’s meals would be cancelled. Arahn suspected that one cauldron of stew had not been the prison’s food stores for the entire day and this was merely another layer of punishment. At the wave of displeasure that rolled across the crowd the warden calmly reminded them who to blame for their predicament and then dismissed them back to their cells, Arahn and the other death row inmates being escorted back upstairs.

Back in the silence of his cell Arahn stretched his aching hands, clenching and unclenching them. There were no broken bones and the warden’s switch hadn’t even broken the skin but still the pain lingered. Apart from the occasional burn at the forge or the standard bumps and bruises of childhood, Arahn had not experienced much pain in his life, let alone suffered under corporal punishment. His teachers had often carried rulers with them as they stalked the classroom looking for whisperers and cheaters to punish but Arahn had rarely raised their ire. Mostly because he generally avoided confrontation, his outbursts at his trial had been quite out of character for him, something he was already deeply regretting, but also because he’d not really managed to make any friends at his new school and so had no one to try and break the rules with.

The tray from breakfast was still lying on the floor next to his bed and a wave of guilt at seeing it rushed through him. It didn’t seem fair to Arahn that he be the only one fed while the rest went hungry. He sat down on the mattress and pulled the remains of his cold breakfast onto his lap. Eating it now was the last thing he wanted to do, but if it was all he had until tomorrow morning, he would tolerate and be grateful for it. After all if the warden was telling the truth and they were going to lose their lunch and dinner as well then Arahn would be hungry again before long.

He had barely started trying to tear the remains of the, now stale, loaf into eatable pieces before there were footsteps outside and his door was wrenched open again. A guard stood in the doorway grinning triumphantly.

“Got one!” he roared.

A second guard entered the room and stood over Arahn who sat frozen with fear.

“Thought you’d get a meal in, would you? While everyone else went hungry?” the second guard said loudly, his voice bouncing off the close-nit stone walls.

Arahn wanted to object and point out the food had been given to him. It was hardly his fault the guards had decided to deliver his meal first before the rest of the population had a chance to riot over theirs, but he kept his mouth shut. The last time he spoke up in frustration he got thirty years increased to a death sentence.

Suddenly the guard lashed out with a steel booted foot, kicking the tray out of Arahn’s arms and sending the cold slop splattered up the wall and the stale bread bouncing away onto the filthy floor.

“Still want to eat it?” the guard demanded.

Arahn shook his head. “No sir.”

“Why not? You looked so eager for it a moment ago! What’s the matter with it now?”

Arahn didn’t respond. He had no idea what the guard even expected of him let alone what he should say.

“Thought so!” the guard sneered triumphantly. “I suspect your cellmates down below will have some words for you when you go down for exercise tomorrow.”

The guard stooped briefly to pick up the discarded tray before stomping out of the room, leaving the mess of spoiled food where it had fallen.

Arahn lay down on his filthy mattress and stared at the ceiling. It hadn’t occurred to him that someone would come back for the food, at least not until much later. And he especially didn’t expect them to announce from the heaven’s that he was daring to eat what little remained of it before it went bad. He dreaded the morning. A few skipped meals he could deal with, the reactions of the lowlifes downstairs to the audacity of him trying to eat without them, that was scary.

Boredom set in before hunger did. He’d get up and pace the tiny cell, moving from lying on the mattress to sitting on the tiny stool, to leaning against the wall. It was palm itchingly frustrating having nothing to do. At home he could go for a walk, or rearrange his room if he felt like it. Sometimes he’d go downstairs and just sit in the kitchen and watch Mrs Thorten go about her business, giving her someone to talk to. He’d even help her baking sometimes. Thinking of his landlady now made him angry and sad. He wanted to punch something. To scream and cry. But knowing there might be people listening kept him silent. The last thing he needed was for the guards to think he was crazy or violent.

By dinner time Arahn was starting to feel slightly nauseous from hunger, the uncomfortable feeling in his gut the only thing preventing him from going to bed early. He both wanted and didn’t want to sleep. On one hand he’d be able to skip the rest of the day meaning that breakfast would come sooner. But there was also the fact he was dreading having to interact further with the other prisoners, which seemed unavoidable come tomorrow. Eventually the sun began to sink through the sky, darkening Arahn’s cell and telling his brain it was time to sleep. Desperate for food with and a pounding headache from the lack of water, Arahn eventually slipped into an uncomfortable slumber plagued by nightmares. Of his landlady, of the prison and everything in between.

Sometime after midnight Arahn was woken by a loud jingling of keys outside his cell. He sat bolt upright as the cover over the door slot was slid open. Arahn could see the moon high and full in the sky bleeding its silver light into the room.

“This one?” the guard asked, as though he’d asked the question many times already.

An old man came into view, stringy white hair falling either side of pointed ears while wide red eyes with oval pupils scrutinised the cell’s occupant. Arahn felt like a lab rat being examined.

He’d seen the old man’s kind before, though rarely. Most elves, known as fae’rn in the elven tongue, kept to themselves and rarely travelled outside their borders. It wasn’t exactly a secret that the general attitude between the Elven Orders and the Human Kingdoms was poor. Only elves who were not citizens of any Order, or who had been born in other lands generally chose to live in foreign countries. As far as Arahn knew there were no elves in the southern villages, so where this one had come from was a mystery to him.

“Yes,” the old elf said in a high weedy voice. “This one will do nicely.”

The guard removed the bundle of keys from his belt and unlocked the door. “Alright,” he said, wrenching it open with a squeal of metal on stone. “Let me know when you’re done.”

The man entered the cell his mouth curling at the corner in a smile that wasn’t friendly. He was hunched over and scrawny, in the way the elderly sometimes were, all skin and bone. He wore a long black and red robe skirt that ended at his ankles, revealing long bare feet wrapped in cloth. He walked with a bit of a limp and carried a gnarled wooden staff in his right hand with a corkscrew pattern cut into its surface. All in all, he didn’t look like any of the elves Arahn had ever seen. He lacked the poise and grace they showed with their fancy clothes, oiled and braided hair, and overly-formal way of speaking. This elf looked like he would be at home in an asylum, with his wild hair and eyes, strange dress and the slightly manic edge to his speech.

“I am Calan’dal,” he said, then waited patiently for Arahn to introduce himself in return. “I have a proposition for you.”

“What do you want from me?” Arahn asked nervously. He couldn’t imagine any way that he could be of use to anyone, let alone an elf.

Calan’dal dragged the cell’s little stool forward and perched on it, letting his staff go to lean against the wall.

“I am a cartographer by trade,” the elf began, reaching under his caplet to a small leather satchel pressed tight to his ribs by the short strap over his opposite shoulder and across his bare chest. As he did so he revealed the many red tattoos that covered his torso and the black belt studded with little diamond-shaped crystals, some grey, some red. “But I have spent much of my life studying a place known as the Descarrian Abyss. Have you heard of it?”

Arahn shook his head. He’d never been one to pay much attention to legends or stories.

“Shame, it’s a fascinating topic,” said Calan’dal retrieving a scroll from his bag. “Stories of its existence have been recording from since the first era of the Mystic Age. Which certainly gives you an idea of how long it’s been around.”

The history of Alvis hadn’t always been tracked by the archivists at the Great Library and recorded, so much of the world’s early history was loosely broken up into chunks called Ages, which were then further divided into eras. The first of the so-called Dark Ages existed from pretty much the start of the universe until humans first harnessed the use of arcane magic. After the Sorceric Academy was founded the world entered into what historians tentatively called the Mystic Age. The Arcane Era started the Magis bloodline, still strong today in the veins of every mage and sorcerer. The second era saw the great war between the Human Kingdoms plunge the Central Continent into a thousand years of bloodshed before a council of the ruling kings finally brokered peace. And the third had come to be known as the Golden Age of Heroes or sometimes the Time of Legends, when the great guilds were at their most influential and the farthest corners of the world were being explored. Or at least that was the threadbare history of the world most children were taught in their early years.

“What does a map maker want with me?” asked Arahn hesitantly.

Calan’dal’s eyes sparkled. “Right to the point, eh boy? Fine, fine I understand, time is a precious commodity, especially for someone like you.”

Arahn’s eyes narrowed. Was the man taunting him? Calan’dal seemed to sense he’d touched a nerve and waved his hands in a calming gesture.

“Now, now, no need to fly off the handle. I’m here to offer you a way out of this mess you’ve found yourself in.” He reached for an identical bag hanging from the opposite shoulder and withdrew a very weathered looking book, its leather cover stained, and its pages warped by water damage. “Some years ago I came across the journal of a fairly unknown explorer, Professor Oliver Lambourne, who had dedicated much of his career to the exploration and study of the Descarrian Abyss. He kept meticulous records of his exploits, much of them lost, except for this one which he was carrying when he died.”

“What happened to him?” asked Arahn.

“Shipwreck somewhere I believe,” said Calan’dal vaguely, opening the journal. There was a childish kind of glee in the way he flipped through the wrinkled pages. “Anyway, since coming into possession of his journal I have learnt more about the dungeon’s depths than I ever thought possible. And it is through his writings that I have managed to track down one of the Abyss’ elusive entrances.”

“You want to go there?” guessed Arahn and the elf nodded eagerly.

“Yes, yes, I’m planning an expedition you see. But I can’t go alone of course, an old man like me? No, I’m looking for a few hail and hardy souls to join me as, bodyguards I suppose you could say.”

“Why me?” asked Arahn. “I’m hardly the heroing type.”

“Not many are these days. Once was a time I could have gone to any guild in the land and employed a veritable army.” He shook his head. “Alas the times have changed. Most people who know of the Abyss prefer to avoid it these days.”

“Dangerous?” asked Arahn. “Monsters and things?”

“Oh if that were only what was contained within those walls. The world below is like nothing any of us surface dwellers have ever seen. But there’s treasure too, mountains of it, from the records I’ve read. Most of the arcane artefacts now prized by the archmages around the world were first discovered within the Abyss.” Calan’dal said all this with breathless enthusiasm, but now his voice softened, his gaze knowing. “But for you, who’s looking down the barrel of a pretty desperate day, I’m thinking you might find something a bit more valuable down there.”

Arahn raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“Freedom,” said Calan’dal.

“I’m on death row,” said Arahn, doubtful it would be that easy to slip the noose.

“And people say the Abyss is a death sentence! It’s perfect!” A gleeful cackle slipped out of the old elf before he could stop it. “I mean, do you think I would have been allowed to come and make you the offer if they weren’t going to let you come with me?”

“So it’s either death by hanging or I suppose, torn apart by some beast in your dungeon then?”

“Uh, uh, uh! There’s no guarantee of that, you know. If you stay up here in your cosy little cell your future ends in a hundred percent chance of death. But exploring the Abyss, well, maybe there’s a chance of death there too, but there’s also a chance of riches, of freedom. Once your job for me is over, your sentence will be considered served as far as I’m concerned and you’ll be free to go.”

Arahn was sceptical. “Just like that?”

Calan’dal reached for the scroll he’d set aside while he’d been eagerly flipping through the journal and rolled it out on the table. “Employment contract.”

Arahn leant forward to have a look at the yellowing parchment. Tiny cursive text stared back at him, looping back and forth over the page. He couldn’t understand any of it.

“The terms are quite simple,” said the elf in response to Arahn’s confused expression. “You will accompany me into the abyss, equipment provided at my expense of course and act as my bodyguard whilst I explore. Once I have concluded my expedition, you will be free to leave, whether that’s to return to your old life or perhaps to start a new one with any treasure we may obtain during our exploration.”

“You’re not going to keep everything?”

“Oh, there may be a few choice pieces I will need to reserve for myself, arcane artefacts and the like, for my studies you know, but anything else we find we’ll split evenly between all parties.”

“How many people are you hiring?” asked Arahn. It would be no good if he was going to risk a violent and bloody end for one 200th of an unspecified amount of gold. Dead was dead, but at least a broken neck at the gallows was quick.

“Well… I say all parties but I can’t exactly pay a dead man can I?” The elf laughed. “So if somehow you and I were the only ones left at the end it’d be a straight 50/50 split of whatever we can carry.”

Arahn considered the offer. The elf was definitely crazy but he’d gotten himself let into the prison somehow so his offer must be at least somewhat serious. It would be dangerous, there’d be no doubt of that but life and potential riches was hard to turn down. He just hoped the other people in the group knew a little more about fighting that him.

“Alright,” he said. “I’ve got nothing to lose.”

Calan’dal held out a black handled pen with a very fine silver nib, but when Arahn reached to take it, the old elf thrust it forward, stabbing the sharp tip into the pad of the boy’s thumb. Arahn gasped and snatched his hand back, staring wide eyed as a drop of crimson blood hung suspended for a moment from the tip of the pen and fell to stain the edge of the parchment. There was a beat of silence then a sharp sizzling sound, like fresh meat tossed onto a burning grill, filled the air. The drop of blood bubbled on the page, then flickered like candlelight. In a flash, a bright yellow line scorched across the page, looping wildly around and leaving an inky black trail behind it.

Arahn just barely had a chance to see his own name spelled out in perfectly curled script, before Calan’dal tugged on the end of the parchment and the scroll bounced back, perfectly rolled in his hand.

“Glad to have you on board,” said the elf, reaching for his cane and standing, deaf to Arahn’s confused stammers.

The elf bustled out of the room, tucking the contract away into a case that contained four other scrolls, looking a great deal more sprightly that he had when he’d first come in.

Silence fell once more in the young man’s cell and Arahn looked down at the scabbed spot on his thumb. Just what exactly, after all that, had he agreed to?